Facades
by nerdybirdy1224
Summary: A friendly dinner with an old college friend turns into an uncomfortable psychiatrist appointment. "Eating" and drinking happens, and you tell Hannibal exactly what he needs to know about himself.


You had no idea why you put up with him. Everything about him could lead only to pain - you'd come to expect this from a sociopath.

And yet, there was something in the way he could crack that fragile shell of good public images and false smiles to reveal the soft, sensitive core, a person's very heart and soul. Of course, the real problem was that once this soul was exposed, he loved nothing more dearly than to poke and prod at it, finding different ways to exploit the psyche.

There was something addictive about how he could tell you more about yourself than you could discover in a lifetime. Yes, that was it. You were addicted.

God, this was bad.

Associating at all with Hannibal Lecter was a very bad idea. For one thing, there was the worry that you would be brought nearly to tears as he stabbed you with a metaphorical knife made out of everything he deduced about you. Then, of course, there was the somewhat more serious concern that he would tear your face off with his bare teeth and eat your flesh.

Cautiously, very cautiously, you rang the doorbell.

The doorway it was attached to itself belonged to a very seedy looking motel, and the outside of the room was worryingly small. Part of you says, "This must be the wrong place! Lecter would never live here!" But it was very clearly the address on the letter, for it was the only place for miles around that could be considered residential. Besides, you knew full well why he was in a place like this; he was on the run. A fugitive, so to speak. This hotel looked like the sort of place that wouldn't ask questions like "Is your name really John Smith?" "Why do you have a pair of handcuffs around one of your wrists?" or "What's in that large, bloody trunk?" And that was exactly the sort of place a murderer such as Hannibal needed.

The door hadn't opened yet, so you turned the knob and let yourself in. The room behind was well lit and nicely, if sparsely, decorated. Hannibal was sitting at a dining table. "Doorbell is broken. Please, sit," was his polite greeting.

"Hello, Doctor," you said, more like a patient than a dinner guest. A cursory glance around the room revealed that it was as small as it looked from the exterior. However, Hannibal did really know how to maximize space. It appeared he'd been working on the feng shui bit he mentioned in his letter.

"Your hat is nice," he remarked, staring at your crown, which was indeed capped with a stylish grey hat. You smiled, surprised by the compliment, when he continued, "It's new. Too new. You bought it specifically for this dinner." His eyes narrowed, momentarily confused, before widening into a somewhat amused smile. "Oh, I see, of course." he chuckled, as if he were reading a somewhat amusing book. You didn't care for your deepest, darkest secrets and emotions being his somewhat amusing book. "Oh, that is a pity, the lamb in love with a wolf."

"I'm not-"

"PLEASE, SIT!" This time he shouted it, and you were reminded that the gentlemanly air is a pure facade. Suddenly terrified, you scampered to the chair across from him. "Thank you. Now then, don't try to deny it. You're blushing right now." You pressed a frantic hand to your flushed cheek. Damn traitor. "A very poor decision on your part, really, (y/n). But I suppose it can't be helped. Just don't expect it to be reciprocated. Sociopath, you know."

With gritted teeth you growled, "I'm not...a lamb."

Hannibal narrowed his eyes at you. "No, (y/n), I don't think you are."

Damn that man and his mind and his games.

Damn your own mind for hating it.

Damn that mind for loving it.

Damn your thoughts.

Damn your mind.

Damn it.

Damn your horrible, unforgivable love for Hannibal Lecter.

Wanting greatly to change the subject, you turn your attention now to the plate in front of you. The meal is clearly one prepared on a convict's budget. The silver candlesticks on the table had the name "Andersen" stamped on the side, implying that they were... not originally his. The white tablecloth was plastic. The plates, although appearing ceramic, were plastic as well. The asparagus was well-cooked, though clearly canned. And the wine was not so high in quality as you had come to expect from a man of good taste such as Lecter. The meat was high caliber, and so you carefully sawed into that.

Despite its details, the whole of the meal had something formal about it. Like a man who had spent his last fifty dollars on a fine suit. Just another façade. But you appreciated the work put in to construct it for you.

The steak was perfectly cooked and marvelously seasoned. If you were to construct a ranking of any steak you had ever eaten from one to ten, this would probably be, like, at least a nine and a half. It was pretty damn good. "This is delicious," you praised, "what is it?"

"Steak."

"What kind, I mean?"

Hannibal grinned at you, somewhat evilly.

Oh.

Very deliberately, you chewed the bite in your mouth. You'd been afraid of something like this. Gently, you set your fork to one side of your plate, swallowed enough food to open your mouth, and attempted a compliment. You found only an odd sort of squeaking noise would come out, and took a moment.

Hannibal was still gazing at you, measuring your response. "You thought it was delicious before," he reminded you.

"No, no, it still is..." This was decidedly bad, but you decided to put on a façade of calm. " _Who_ is it?"

He smiled at your response, though clearly he could see right through it to your true internal panic. "Dentist. Dr. Andersen. Found some blood on my teeth, ran some tests. Funny thing is, it turned out it wasn't mine." His face of mock puzzlement turned to a casual shrug. "He had to go."

You recognized the name from the candlesticks and glanced back at them. So that was where he'd got them. Lecter followed your gaze and nodded. "Well done, (y/n). The candlesticks, and most of this decorum," he made a broad gesture around the room, "came from his basement. I needed it, you know, it was too sparse in here. I told you about the feng shui, didn't I?" You agreed.

The two of you finished your meal in silence, although you suspected he was reading - reading your face, your every kept greatly to the (much safer) asparagus.

You'd studied psychology in college with Hannibal. He was head and shoulders above the other

students, but he didn't really...interact with them in the same way. Perhaps that was why you two had hit it off. Of course, you didn't know the extent of it until...well, until you saw him on the news. That was one of the more terrifying things about him - if you met him at a party, you'd think, "Oh, what a charming and intelligent fellow, I should greatly like to know this perfectly ordinary and innocuous man better." But, therein lied the façade.

After dinner you sat with him for intelligent conversation on the sofa. Was it a little unsettling, sitting on a dead man's couch with his murderer? Yes, of course. But at this point, it scarcely mattered.

The conversation was mundane for a few minutes, just the general old-friends-catching-up talk of where you were employed, who you had dated (really nobody worth mentioning), and who had been killed of late. A few drinks later, it turned - as it usually did in these cases - philosophical.

"It seems I'm not the only one with a façade, Doctor," you interrupted, totally redirecting the conversation's tone and vaguely drunk.

"What do you mean?" asked Lecter. He sat up straight and looked at you piercingly, his light blue eyes boring into your own (e/c) ones.

"A façade. You know, a false image, pretending to be something else."

He looked irked. "And you think I have one."

"Of course. Most people do, just in lies and faked laughs, in pretending to care. You don't, you're a sociopath. But you still have a façade of a sort, like how you put up all this decor, and made the meal look all fancy, pretending you're not on the run. Pretending everything is normal, that you're just an ordinary gentlemen."

He was intrigued and - so it seemed - less drunk than you. This time, you had provided Hannibal with an interesting case study, a mystery in your mind. Something he didn't know about you...and so desperately wanted to. "Why do I have a façade then, if I'm a sociopath?"

"Maybe you aren't one, not really, not completely." You leaned your head on his shoulder, looking up at him. He gave an indulging smile.

"Than what am I, (y/n)? If you had to give a diagnosis?"

You looked up at him with a dead serious face. After thinking for a moment, you answered.

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

He looked away from you, expression unreadable and a little like a man who had just been shot. You had slurred your words a little, and probably wouldn't understand them later, but to Lecter, they were the best answer you could have possibly given him.

You fell asleep where you sat and remained there peacefully.

When you woke up, you were struck with a momentary panic. You remembered very little, and you _were_ drunk...anything could have happened.

You scoffed at yourself. Absolutely _dick_ could have happened, because we were talking about Hannibal Lecter. If anything regrettable had happened overnight, you would not have woken up in the morning.

You pried yourself up off the sofa and looked around the room. Hannibal wasn't in the main room, but it was possible, if not probable, that he was in his small side bedroom.

Your head pounded with a quite severe hangover, reminding you somewhat of last night's conversations.

You turned around to see Lecter standing right behind you and jumped back. Your heart jumps from the momentary shock. "God, Hannibal! Don't do that!" you shouted, composing yourself slightly. "Why are you so good at sneaking up on people?"

He blinks once at you pointedly.

"Well, right, yeah, but..." you stumbled and abandoned the line. "Good morning."

He smiles tiredly. "Good morning. How's your head?"

"Good," you replied, without thinking, before amending, "Um...not good, really. Do you have any ibuprofen?"

"Chloroform?" he offered.

"Pass."

You found your hat and jacket on the chair and proceeded to say goodbye like two normal friends. However, when you reached the door, Hannibal confronted you. You were on one side of the threshold, he was on the other, and he spoke into your face. "I don't love you, (y/n)." This wasn't exactly encouraging. He paused, drawing a breath, preparing for his next words. "However, I haven't eaten you yet, so we shall consider that a step forward." He closed the door in your face. You truly had no idea what to make of this, but you knew he had stripped away the façade as he always does, and, as usual, stabbed you in the heart. But this time, the pain was something happier.

The wine, human flesh, and immense ball of tangled emotions sitting in your gut got to you. You turned to the bushes and immediately threw up.

You could hear Hannibal Lecter laughing from inside.


End file.
